There's Something Here
by scooter13
Summary: They're both liars and cowards, but sometimes that's all you need.  Smuttiness


Never realized that I've never put up a disclaimer, so here goes. Don't own anything, pretty sure I'd be more of an ass if I did. Hope you enjoy the smuttiness!  
Warning: bit of smexy rough housing; not at all non-con but who knows.

* * *

As they walk through the metal gates of Megaton, Charon can't help but sneer at the inhabitants that stop to gawk because he knows it's as much at her as it is at him. The black sheriff (Simms? Charon thinks) stops and nods at the little Vaultie, who gives him a blinding grin and wave back. Charon sighs, shaking his head, but reverts to scowling when she glances back at him with a sweet look on her too perfect face.

She stops and mock scowls back at him before turning away, giggling, and Charon finds himself sneering again. He has no clue, no fucking _clue_ how she survived out here on her own for God knows how many months with only her smile and basic weapons knowledge, but she's got him, now, and damned if he's going to let her die.

Even if it would do the world a spot of good, he thinks as she hops over to those shit-brained Children of Atom (Charon snorts, thinking the name rather ironic considering the side effects) and deposits a large amount of caps into their donation box. The leader, Cromwell or some such shit, bows to her, then makes a sweeping gesture towards the ghoul. Charon glares at them both when they turn, and the Vaultie has such a crest-fallen look, but Charon only rolls his eyes. She turns back to Cromwell and allows the creepy lech to take her hands into his. Charon watches with disgust as the Vaultie listens to Cromwell speak even as the old pervert strokes her pale skin like it's a piece of silk lingerie. The ghoul shakes his head, disgusted that smoothskins can get away with this shit, but shove a ghoul anywhere near a smoothskin and it was "oh, _help_ me, the big bad _monster_'s gonna get me!"

She finally disentangles herself with a small smile, leaning in to say something that makes Cromwell laugh. Charon glowers, and as she hops back to him, he leans in and growls, "For _once_, can you not make yourself such an easy fucking target?" And because she's with him and they're all alone, she lets her voice become harsher, though the smile stays plastered on her face.

"People never expect a bullet from a nun," is all she says before she turns around, all giddiness once again and bounces over to Jenny Stahl, who greets the girl with a smile and condescending pat on the head. And as Charon watches, as he always does, he has noticed that people do treat her differently when they haven't seen her kill. Because when they've seen her bludgeon someone to death with the butt of her shot gun, they can barely look her in the eyes. Charon doesn't know why she plays this game so well, only knows that it works. Also knows he needs to get her back to her house, because the way she's bouncing around in that tank top is drawing a lot of attention.

Jericho, that fucking lech, is leaning over and very close to her ass. She has to notice, the girl's not _that_ stupid, but he knows she'll keep up appearances even though she hates the attention. When the ex-Raider's hand is inches from the Vaultie's tight ass, Charon intervenes, his large, red hand grasping the smaller man's wrist and wrenching it around until Jericho was on his knees, growling, his hand bent over and past his shoulder and elbow. Charon's watching him, and Vaultie takes a breath, expelling it on a soft, fluttery moan. "Oh _no_, Charon," she cries, taking his hand off Jericho's wrist, but side stepping the ex-Raider so she was blocked by Charon's larger bulk. "What did you do that for?" she asks, all sweet, beguiling innocence as she stares around him at Jericho. And if Charon hadn't seen firsthand what she'd done to better people for more trivial slights, he might have believed her act. But when a girl wrenches a woman's arm out of her socket for daring to suggest she market out Charon as a ghoul prostitute, it's hard to think of her as any sort of innocent.

So he smirks and says, gravelly and just a little satisfied, "He was trying to cop a feel." Everyone else laughs, because that is who Jericho is, but it stops when the Vaultie's jaw drops and her large, blue eyes turn to Simms, who's watching carefully. She seems to be speechless as she swallows and closes her mouth, biting her lower lip so well that it's at once a testament and a test. Jericho grumbles and raises himself up, and now Jenny is rushing forward, about to scoop the girl up. But Charon had seen that look before, so he growls and grasps her arm, dragging her along. When Simms calls out, Charon just snarls and the Vaultie forces him to stop. "I'm fine," she calls back, though her body is angled perfectly away, shoulders slumped _just_ enough that everyone knows she is not. Then she turns and allows Charon to take her arm again, her hair hanging low and glinting in the light.

* * *

It takes all of three seconds after the door has been locked before she's working on the buckles of his armour. Charon grins and she grins back, all white teeth and dark sin. It's in these moments that he truly appreciates her game, because no one will bother her. She is polite and sweet and even though he's a ghoul, she trusts him, so people allow her to do what she wishes. She helps out, even when she doesn't have to, and Charon is pretty sure that isn't part of her game but never mentions it. But when she's pissed, like she is now, there is only one of two options: kill the thing that pissed her off, or distract her enough so she forgets or doesn't care. It's usually fifty-fifty odds what will happen, although sometimes it's a little of both.

So when they're in Megaton, she spends a lot of time keeping the populace happy so that when something does happen to piss her off, and she runs away with her large ghoul, no one bothers to check on her because she's such a ray of fucking sunshine when she gets back. If anyone suspects, they keep it to themselves.

And that is how they end up here, with her sitting on top of the book shelf she fills with shit, and him hammering into her, knocking all that shit down and over as he fucks her senseless. The only downside is they have to be quiet when they're here, but that's hardly a downside, because they're both biters and it's so fucking hot when she's whimpering into his broken skin.

He can feel her tighten up, knows her orgasm is imminent and pushes himself harder and then she's coming and she's so tight. He can't stop, knows he probably should, knows she's hyper sensitive, but doesn't care. He grasps her hips, striving toward his own orgasm and then she _kicks_ him off. Literally. Pushes him away with her hands, then uses her legs to send him sprawling.

He hits the ground with a surprised grunt, eyes closing as the pressure change hurts his cock. He opens them, furious, and she's staring at him now, all wicked sin and pure skin. She's gotten off the bookshelf and is edging around him, grinning. He smiles back, knows this game and loves it. Still doesn't get how such a pretty little thing like her wants it from him, but he isn't about to complain. Her own cum is dripping down her legs, and that's all Charon needs to have him up and running.

She darts for the stairs, but her legs are still shaky and he's fucking furious and turned on. He grabs her ankle and she falls catching herself, but one of her hands slip and her cheek still manages to hit the stair, tearing the skin. He doesn't care, though, pulling her hips up from the stairway, groaning at the sight of her cunt, still stretched and ready. But this isn't how the game is played, and even though she pants when he buries his face into her, long tongue pushing through the folds and into her pulsing opening, she still kicks him in the chest. Not hard enough to hurt, but he's already off balance on the stairs, so he lets her go, scrabbling for purchase before he falls backwards.

She's up and running again, her laughter mocking him as he rights himself and charges up the stairs. He hears a door close, hears the lock fall into place and smiles to himself. She hates paying for anything, so she must want this real bad. Lining himself up, he lifts one leg, then kicks the door in, the half rotted wood giving away easily and falling inwards.

And she's there, standing on the bed, backed into a corner, and he thinks this is what death should look like. Beautiful and unexpected and waiting. Growling, he stalks forward and she slides along the wall, but there is nowhere to go, and they both know it. Smirking, he stops, and she stares at him, her blue eyes bright and narrowed, swollen lips pursed and turned up at the corners. Then, very deliberately, he lowers a large hand and takes his erection and begins to stroke.

Even from his distance he can hear her breath catch, watches as she takes her full lower lip between her teeth and unconsciously begins to pluck at her nipples. "You want to play?" he asks, and she nods, eyes glued to the red, ruined flesh of hand and cock. He smirks and strokes himself, "Don't think I'm hard enough for you, smoothskin." And it's such a lie, but she finally looks up at him, knows what that means and licks her upper lip deliberately.

He doesn't like watching her give him head, feels like he's forcing her and that makes him feel sick. But when they play these games, and she looks like that, sometimes he lets the darker edge of his soul come out to play. And that edge does not mind skull-fucking a smoothskin. She brings her hand up to her mouth, as if she is shocked, her full lip parted, eyes glinting in the low light. Deliberately, she takes the tip of her thumb between those perfect lips, pushing against her even teeth and bites down, watching him as she swirls her tongue over the digit, and he knows she needs it bad. Because even though a part of him loves getting head, the _whole_ of her loves giving it.

She drops to her hands and knees and crawls the short distance to the edge of the bed, dark blonde hair falling in shags across her eyes. Deliberately slowly, she opens her mouth, full lips dark and framing white teeth, her tongue reaching out and trying to lick the head of his cock just out of reach. And Charon desperately wishes her supporters, her cheerleaders could see their Saint from Vault 101 on her knees, nearly panting for the ghoul cock he's about to face fuck her with. And when he moves just the right amount, her tongue flicks over the tip and she groans, drawing her tongue back into that sinful mouth, eyes closing as if savouring his taste.

Charon decides he needs to play now.

Grabbing her head between his hands, he watches as the length of his ruined cock is swallowed up by his sick little smoothskin, and hisses when she groans and bites down just enough. Pulling out, he pushes more into her, harder and not caring when she gags or when her hands come up and grasp the base, stroking the length she can't fit down. Her throat is just as tight and hot as her cunt and he again wonders why such a perfect little thing would want him. He looks down and her blue eyes, so wide and perfect, are staring at him, up the length of his ravaged and incomplete body and looking into his eyes and these moments are when Charon understands her and her him.

It's not love, though, because this is a Wasteland and the only people who fall in love are those who want a house in the country with 2.5 kids and a dog. But it is something, and it's at times like these, when he sees her and her him, that he pushes her away, forcing her mouth off his cock and pushes at her shoulders, urging her to turn over onto her back. She complies and she reaches for him, legs spread, hair haloing around her head, her face that perfect shade of pink that makes her look so wanton and so innocent, the blood from the cut on her cheek making the image irresistibly real.

And they both know, as he takes his place between her thighs, that they won't stop to find a house, and they'll never have the patience for children, and if they did have a dog they'd probably end up eating it to survive. It's in these moments when they understand each other for the liars and cowards they are, because that is what they do to survive.

He because that is what his contract has sometimes forced him to be, and her because she is too afraid of the world turning on her. As he thrusts into her, he can feel the feather light touches of her kisses on his shoulder and grins into her hair. And he thinks that even though they'll never have the house and the kids and the dog, they at least have a home.

* * *

When they leave the house the next day, she's chipper as ever, her bright smile bringing a tip of the hat from Simms. The Sheriff stops when he sees the cut, though, and the Vaultie stutters prettily, looking away _just so_, her hair falling in the right places. But Simms is one who knows, so he just gives her another nod and offers Charon a long and searching look before shouldering his rifle and turning away. A small part of Charon wishes he could touch her, just as he knows a small part of her wishes she could touch him; but then the game would shatter around them and neither knows what to do if that happens.

And when she looks at him in the dawn light, alone for the moment, the city silent around them, Charon thinks he understands.

* * *

Whoo, had this one for a while and just tweaked it up a bit. Hope y'all enjoy!


End file.
